


Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 4 +1 things, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, hockey boys in love, silliness, tw: blood (from a bump on the head)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Kent loves Tater as the sum of his parts. But he likes the individual parts, too.





	

**1\. Head**

Kent’s staying at Tater’s place for the weekend. He’s flipping through channels on the TV when he hears the front door open.

“Hey, babe,” he calls without looking. “Just in time, you nearly missed Chopped.” When the only response he gets is a grunt, he looks back over the sofa. He sees Tater, hunched over in the doorway, and immediately drops the remote and lurches to his feet. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

Tater is pressing a hand gingerly to the back of his head. He’s a bit pale, and his brows are furrowed like he’s got a migraine. He heads into the kitchen. “I hit my head. I’m all right.”

“The fuck you are. No, don’t–I’ll get the ice, you sit.” Kent guides Tater to the sofa and helps him sit down. “Don’t move.”

Five minutes later, Tater is pressing a bag of ice to the back of his head. Kent had pawed through his hair and been horrified when he felt a small, bloody dent in Tater’s skull. Apparently Tater had dropped something in the parking garage and banged his head on a metal beam when he stood back up. Kent’s just glad he was in the building and not across town.

“You’re sure we shouldn’t go to the hospital,” Kent says.

Tater starts to shake his head and stops with a wince. “No. Is okay. Had worse on ice.”

“Yeah, like that makes me feel better.” Kent puts a pillow in his lap. “Lie down.”

Tater goes without protest. He’s being so quiet, which is honestly what’s worrying Kent the most. Tater is always talking, always laughing, always waving his arms and moving about. Now, Tater just curls his enormous self up on the couch and huddles in Kent’s lap, gingerly pressing the ice to his skull. Kent takes over for him, holding the ice with one hand and stroking Tater’s hair with the other. He knows Tater will be okay, because Tater’s right, they’ve both seen worse on the ice. But that just means Kent knows how fragile the human body is; especially the head.

He’d do anything to protect this head.

“That’s right, babe,” Kent says quietly. “Just rest.” 

 

**2\. Shoulders**

“Okay, on three. One…. two…  _Tater!”_ Kent flails his arms wildly as Tater straightens, nearly unbalancing Kent from his shoulders.

Tater just laughs and squeezes the two big hands he’s got on Kent’s thighs. “Close enough, right?”

Kent wiggles to get comfortable and marvels at the height. They’re at an outdoor music festival and at the back of the crowd, but from Tater’s shoulders, Kent can see all the way to the stage. The band’s guitarist puts pick to strings and the rumble of bass guitar reverberates through the audience and Kent’s bones.

“Yeah!” he cheers, throwing his hands in the air and thanking God and hockey for Tater’s broad shoulders. If Tater were anyone else, Kent would be getting bruises from bones digging into his ass, but Tater’s got a nice cushion of muscle. Kent can feel that muscle move as Tater releases one of Kent’s thighs and adjusts his sunglasses.

The music plays and Kent yells out the lyrics with the rest of the crowd. He cheers uproariously when the song ends, and at last looks down at his human perch. “This is awesome! I fucking love your shoulders,” he says. 

Tater looks back at him and grins.

 

**3\. Knees**

The first time Tater sinks to his knees in front of him, Kent goes a little light-headed.

“Oh,” is all he can say, and Tater smirks and pops open Kent’s fly. He takes _forever_ , keeps Kent on edge and works him until he’s sweating and panting and begging. Kent comes with his fingers in Tater’s hair and Tater’s hands on his ass. Kent denies it, but the truth is that Tater’s grip was the only thing holding Kent up after his own knees gave out.

 

**4\. Toes**

Kent doesn’t notice Tater’s toes the first time they get busy and clothes start flying off. Nor the second time, because it’s night and the lights are low, and he’s too busy thinking  _Jesus Christ that feels good_  and  _yes_  and  _fuck, Alexei._

He doesn’t notice the third, fourth, or fifth times, either. Because, honestly, Tater gets Kent so goddamned hot with words and hands alone that by the time they’re naked, most of Kent’s focus is on Tater’s mouth and dick.

But then it’s a random Sunday morning, and they have literally nowhere to be. They’d stayed in the night before, had take-out and gotten drunk on wine and made out sloppily on the couch for nearly an hour while Netflix asked them if they were  _still_  watching Gilmore Girls. Eventually they’d migrated to bed and the sex had been so tantric that Kent fell asleep almost as soon as it was over. He wakes up tangled in blankets and Tater, and only leaves the bed because he has to piss.

When he comes back, he takes a minute to admire Alexei Mashkov bare-ass naked. It’s a fantastic view. Alexei’s big just about everywhere: head, shoulders, arms, ass, legs, feet…

Toes.

Kent claps a hand over his mouth to hold back a snort. Holy shit.

“Kent?” Tater’s arm slaps the space where Kent used to be. The lack of Kent urges Tater awake, and he blinks blearily until he finds him. “What are you doing there?”

Kent tries to get a hold of himself. “Babe,” he manages finally. “Babe, your toes.”

Tater frowns.

“Your  _toes_. Alexei Mashkov, you have–you have the fucking  _dantiest_  little toes I ever saw, oh my god–”

Tater throws a pillow at him and misses terribly. He tries to pull his feet under the covers. Kent lunches for them.

“No, no, I love them! Tater, oh my god, I love your little toes.”

“You are sleep on couch, Kent.”

 

**\+ 1 Eyes**

Swoops elbows him and points with one gloved hand across the ice. “He’s watching you.”

Kent looks and sees Falconers player #7, Alexei Mashkov, standing still amongst his teammates, just holding his stick and watching them. Watching Kent. “Huh.” Kent had been so fixated on looking for Zimms, he’d forgotten about the whole rest of the Falconers team. “Wonder why.”

“Maybe it’s an intimidation tactic.” One of the rookies has overheard and pipes up. “He’s trying to psych us out before we even start.”

“Or maybe he happens to be looking this way and he’s thinking about what to eat for lunch,” Kent says, and nudges them along. “Come on, warm up. This is hockey, not a staring contest.”

Swoops and the rookie move off. Kent spares one last glance back at the Falconers, who are finishing up and moving off the ice. Mashkov is still there. There’s nothing distant about his gaze; he’s definitely watching Kent.

Then abruptly, Alexei Mashkov--the legendary enforcer whose checks are enough to remove a player from a game--breaks into a toothy, sunny grin and waves enthusiastically at Kent. “Let’s have good game!” he yells.

Kent spends a moment being flabbergasted. Then he laughs and yells back, “See you on the ice, Mashkov!”

Mashkov salutes him and hurries off after his teammates.

“Weird guy,” Kent says, but he skates away wearing a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> join me in rarepair hell on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


End file.
